Trouble Times Four
by Reilly TTV
Summary: Behind all the fame and glamour of The Beatles are four guys who are super close friends and get into all sorts of trouble. But what happens when each of the lads gets into more trouble than they can handle alone? ((4-part story where each Beatle has their own chapter in trouble. NOT ATU))
1. Chapter 1

The Beatles were nearly done their American tour and had arrived at their current city stop that morning. Now, in the afternoon, John, George, Paul and Ringo had decided to sneak off from their hotel suite and avoid all the crazy birds that would no doubt be lurking about hunting down their beloved band members. Their destination: an isolated spot partway under a bridge on the other side of town from where they were staying. It wasn't spring yet, still late February, but the river by the rocks where the guys were hanging about and smoking wasn't frozen anymore.

"Hard t' believe we'll be headin' home soon, eh?" piped up Paul. He was standing on the edge of one of the rocks with Ringo, skipping stones while John and George paced idly around their little hiding spot puffing away on smokes.

"Yeh, and then Georgie turns 21!" Ringo pointed out, getting up off his seat to find better flat stones closer to the edge of the bank.

"They grow up so fast!" cooed John in a sing-song, high-pitched voice.

George just laughed lightly and shook his head. It was true; the youngest Beatle would be 21 in just over a week, three days after they leave America after nearly a month in the country doing TV shows, press, and concerts. He dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground and dug it in with his toe to put it out. He looked up just in time to see Ringo lean a little too far over the edge of the bank.

"Shit, Ringo!" George yelled as the shortest Beatle topped over the edge.

The three remaining lads all heard the splash.

John quickly joined George, who had run to the edge beside Paul as they stood peering down the five feet or so their drummer had fallen. Though it wasn't a far drop, the water was deep and ridiculously cold. The shock must have knocked Ringo unconscious because he never resurfaced. Lennon cussed, put out his cigarette, and started taking off his shoes, quickly followed by his jacket.

"Wh- What the hell're you doing?" said Paul who had caught on to what the rhythm guitarist was doing.

"Well if you two're just gonna stand around, I'm gonna 'ave to get him then aren't I?"

Without another word out of anyone, John in just his shirt and trousers hopped into the river from the very spot where Ringo had fallen in. The water was so cold it hurt; every inch of Lennon's body nearly went numb. The river was fairly clear though and despite not having his glasses on and the particles of god-knows-what in the water, John could make out a human-shaped form – a Ringo-shaped form – floating an arm's length away. The rhythm guitarist reached out and grabbed a handful of Ringo's jacket in each fist and swam upward to the surface, kicking hard.

In the short time it took to reach the shore, john was out of breath from both the cold and the exertion. He dragged his unconscious friend up onto a lower part of the bank, closer to the surface before stepping up onto the rough sand himself, teeth chattering. He could see Paul and George scrambling down the rocks to where he and the drummer both were, equally soaked. John knelt beside Ringo and it only took half a minute for him to notice the smaller man wasn't breathing.

"Fuck," John hissed, and started giving Ringo chest compressions. He could remember seeing a lifeguard pushing down on one of his schoolmate's chests after the kid had been pulled down by an undertow, so he just tried to imitate that. Oh, and he was also yelling. Yelling and rambling and spewing all sorts of words desperately as he tried to save his friend.

Ringo was the eldest Beatle you see, and each and every one of them looked up to him, and cared about him as much as they all cared about one another in their group – maybe even more. The drummer had been ill as a child and was quite susceptible to becoming ill as it is. They had all been anxious and worried out of their minds when Ringo had collapsed during a photoshoot due to a high fever. They didn't know what would happen to their beloved drummer. As it turned out, he had only had tonsillitis, and after surgery to remove the afflicted tonsils, Ringo had been fine. But now it seemed Ringo's life was in John's hands, and John barely knew what to do. His normally hard exterior was dissolving as what seemed like forever ticked slowly by as his friend lay unconscious under his hands.

"Ringo we fuckin need you okay? We all do, all of us! We could never replace you n the band or – or as a friend," John paused, panting "Please, Rings, come on! Wake up you bloody—" It was at this moment that George and Paul appeared. They rushed over and joined a frantic and freezing John in worrying over their mate, though the rhythm guitarist continued his rant as though he didn't notice they were there. "Wake the fuck up already! Come ON! Wake! Up!"

"Hey, John," George interrupted, but John ignored him. "Hey!" the youngest Beatle grabbed his friend by the shoulder, but the man shrugged him off. "HEY!" George persisted and this time, John moved away from Ringo and swung at the lead guitarist blindly.

"What the HELL do you WANT?" he growled, but George just stared at him with wide eyes as the older Beatle seethed in desperate fear-masking anger.

Paul was next to speak, he was sitting beside the drummer now where John had been.

"John, he just wanted to lend you his jacket. You're soaked."

"Shit. I-I'm, ah…" John looked guilty and felt even moreso than he looked.

"That's what I was trying to tell ya…" said George sheepishly.

"Sorry…" muttered John in return.

There was a pressing silence for a moment, then a loud gasp and spluttering noises coming from poor Ringo.

"If… if you three are done being all… soft over there… can someone tell me who's been… stepping all over me chest?" croaked Ringo, sitting up and shivering like the dickens.

All three of the other Beatles broke out into grins and the darkness of their previous situation was forgotten. They had their Ringo back, and it was all thanks to John.

Back at the hotel suite, Ringo had a hot shower and changed into dry clothes while Paul made some tea and the two guitarists commenced in a game of cards. An hour or so later, Brian stopped by to get the boys briefed on their next press conference that would be that evening, and stopped short in the middle of his speech when he noticed John was sitting there with damp hair and clothes. He would've pinned it down to a last minute shower on John's part, but the fact that his clothes were wet raised all sort of questions in the manager's mind.

"Someone care to explain why Mr. Lennon here looks like he's been for a dip in the pool?"

The Beatles exchanged wide-eyed glances with one another. John, being he stubborn man he is, refused to change out of his wet clothes or clean off when he got home, insisting that they should be more concerned for Ringo who "could have damn well died". Instead of doing what surely would have been better for him, John just waited for the warm air from the furnace to dry him out as he sat there playing cards with everyone else. He expected to look back to normal by now – like Ringo did – and none of them would ever have to tell Brian or Mal what had happened that afternoon. They all knew how furious their manager would be… And boy, was he ever.

After a lot of explaining, apologizing, and lecturing, the fab four had learned their lesson so it seemed and were told to get ready for the conference by a frazzled Brian Epstein. The manager pulled John aside for a moment before the Beatle went into the washroom to have that shower he should have had hours ago.

"You know if it weren't for your stupid act of bravery today, we could have honestly lost Ringo," Brian said in earnest.

John shrugged, though he did feel proud of himself. He just went on his way to the shower without a word.

Later on, in the car on the way to the conference, Ringo spoke up to John out of the blue.

"He's right, eh? If you hadn't come in after me, I'd've been a goner," said the drummer, smiling warmly. He must have heard the conversation between his bandmate and manager earlier.

"Weren't ye just telling us to quit bein' soft, Ritchie?" chimed in Paul. "You jus' want John all to yourself now he's your hero, don't you?" the bassist continued. George started laughing and soon so was everyone.

"Ah, shut up," said John, who was smiling genuinely and shaking his head.


	2. Chapter 2

In the next city where the Fab Four were to be staying in America, the lads decided that they deserved a reward after a long hard day of press – some good old fashioned drinking. They had gone to a pub that wasn't overly busy and gotten as drunk as they each pleased to be. Shortly after arriving, Paul challenged the rest of them to a drinking game, but Ringo opted out ("I'd rather keep me wits about me, Paulie") and George "didn't feel up to it" (was he coming down with something? It was the least of the liquor-happy Beatles' worries at this point). So it was down to Lennon and McCartney, seeing how many drinks they could last before giving up. Ringo and George placed little bets, the drummer betting on John's success and George on Paul's. Ultimately, it was the lead guitarist who won the wager because Paul just kept going after John gave up. Paul never usually drank this much but whatever, they were almost done in America and that was something to drink to.

It was just when the four young men were preparing to go back to their suite when Paul spotted a woman across the room. She was a curvy redhead with these big blue eyes and rosy full lips that the bassist could only think of kissing in that moment. He didn't know a thing about her but he was too drunk to care. There's always a fling to be flung when you're Paul McCartney. After telling his bandmates to go on back to the hotel without him, Paul made his move on the redheaded woman.

"Hey love, I know what you must be thinkin', Paul McCartney himself?" Paul started in a self-flattering manner, not even noticing the man sitting across from the girl he was flirting with. "It's your lucky night tonight, because I know for a fact that we can make great music together. If you catch my drift, babe."

In some sober, far off reach of the bassist's mind, he realized he was way too drunk to be charming or clever with his pickup lines. But the Paul that was talking, intoxicated Paul, didn't even care.

"P-Paul McCartney? Um—," the young woman stammered, her English accent showing through.

"English bird? In Miami? Must be me who's lucky then, eh love?" Paul winked and smiled his McCharmly smile, though it was rather vacant in his drunkenness.

The redhead's eyes went wide and she nodded her head towards her date who at across the table from her. "I… Um, I can't, uh…" She said. Paul shrugged.

"Your loss, love."

The bassist left the bar, giving up on the girl, and started his walk back to the hotel with a headache starting to form behind his eyes.

"Hey! Hey buddy!" Paul turned to see the redhead's date – a fairly large, muscular man with blond hair and grey eyes – quickly coming up the street behind him, looking pissed.

_Shit, Paul, look what you did, _the bassist thought as he faced the man, one eyebrow raised. Before the beatle could even see it coming or react, the other man had punched Paul square in the face. When he hit the pavement, the blond man just kept whaling on Paul's face. Paul thought distantly, _why is he so angry?_

"That's for trying to get with my girl," growled the grey-eyed man.

_Oh, that's who he is,_ thought Paul, _Fuck, that hurts._ The bassists lip was split and bleeding, and he was pretty sure he had a black eye. Just as the Beatle was going to get up and apologize, the other man aimed a kick – a very hard kick – to Paul's side. The Beatle gasped in pain. It was after midnight, not many people were around to see what was happening. In fact, there was no one around at all. Paul hoped that someone would come by and help; he was way in over his head here. _I shouldn't've had so much to drink…_ the bassist was starting to regret every stupid decision he had made that night.

"And that's because she almost went with you. You Beatles are stealing all these girls away from the people they should really be with, and I'm sick of it. You're nothing special. You're no more than a bunch of… A bunch of—" the American looked like he was about to start beating on Paul again, and the Beatle, his senses and reflexes dulled by the alcohol, couldn't even come close to fighting back if that were the case. He just braced himself for another onslaught.

"Hey! What th' hell are ya doin'? Get away from 'im, I've a right mind to phone the police, y'know!"

Paul recognized that voice through his pain and drunken haze – it was Ringo. The bassist watched as the blond man turned tail and walked away. The Beatle could have laughed; the man was nearly twice Ringo's size and yet he slunk off like a beaten cat when the drummer threatened him. Paul laughed, winced, and the drummer turned to him.

"Christ, Paul," the smaller man helped his friend to his feet. Paul grimaced in pain, he definitely wasn't looking or feeling his best right now. "Came back to check on you - d'you even notice how much ye were drinking? - find ye like this… Brian's gonna flip his lid."

_John's gonna flip his lid, _thought Paul.

"Come on then," Ringo sighed, "Let's get you back to the hotel, hm?"

After a short walk (a walk in which Ringo let Paul lean on him a lot, despite their difference in stature), the two arrived at the hotel at which the band was staying, the bassist at last spoke up. During the walk the most he'd said was "ow" between various pained hisses and groans.

"Hey um, Ritchie?"

The drummer looked up at Paul with a concerned look on his face. "Yeah?" he questioned his friend, brows furrowed.

"Thanks for, uh, lookin' for me…" Paul cleared his throat then continued. "You kinda saved my arse, so er, thanks."

Ringo smiled and shrugged, a faint pink flush in his cheeks hidden in the darkness of the street outside the hotel.

"'s nothing Paulie, really," he said quietly.

The two then recommenced their walk (or limp on Paul's part) into the hotel. Luckily, it was late and there was no one around in the lobby to see the bloody beaten Beatle. The bassist was thinking something that if he ever said out loud, he would be sure to be examined for a head injury. _If it hadn't been for Ringo, _thought Paul with a sinking feeling in his stomach, _I could've died. I could've been beaten up and left there to die. What would have happened then? It would've killed John. And George, shit… kid would be devastated. And how bad would Ringo feel if he decided not to come 'n find me? He'd blame himself. When it's really my fault since I was the one that got so drunk…._

By now the two Beatles had made it to the elevator and were waiting for it to come down to the lobby level. Paul spoke up and shared a little of his thoughts with his friend.

"'M sorry I got so stupid 'n drunk," he said.

Ringo replied, "Nah, don' worry about it too much. We've all been like tha', you've seen. Just… be more careful about what you say," the drummer added in a more serious tone.

The shortest beatle was a lot more concerned for Paul than he let on, in fact he was downright angry with his friend for provoking his assailant when he was too drunk to even defend himself. Ringo could only imagine how pissed off John and Brian would be when they caught wind of this.

The two of them finally made it to their suite of rooms and Ringo led a limping Paul, who was clutching his side, inside to the living room area and the bassist promptly but tenderly plopped onto the couch. John was still up, trying to write a new song most likely as he had his guitar out of its case, but he put it aside hastily as he caught sight of Paul.

The poor bassist's head hurt like hell, and he was feeling rather groggy, so groggy that he couldn't make out what John was yelling about and what Ringo was saying to calm the man down. Paul picked out words in John's voice like, "idiot" "could've been killed" and a lot of swearing. When Ringo's voice picked up in volume, John started yelling at him to shut up, that George was sleeping. All the yelling was making Paul's headache worse and the man groaned, lying down on his back as best he could without disturbing his very bruised ribs.

The bassist's eyes were closed but he heard Ringo and John's voices move to the kitchen area, then heard the freezer open and close. Out of nowhere, Paul suddenly felt something very cold touch his side and his head and he hissed, startled. The other two Beatles sopped arguing when Paul piped up in alarm.

"Th' hell is that?" he asked, not opening his eyes due to the throbbing behind them.

Then John spoke to Paul, sounding far less angry and much more concerned.

"Jus' some frozen veg there, Paul."

The rhythm guitarist was about to suggest that Paul wash his face – there was blood on it from a cut above his eyebrow and from the split in his lip – when he was interrupted by a very pale, haggard looking George Harrison emerging from the room he shared with Ringo.

"Wha's all the fuss…" the guitarist's eyes went wide when he saw Paul on the sofa. "Wh-what 'appened to P-Paul?"

George stopped and swallowed hard. He looked like he was going to fall over, with the way he was swaying on his feet. The youngest Beatle staggered into the bathroom and the other stared at each oter with wide-eyed concern of their own as they heard their friend be sick to his stomach.


End file.
